Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me: would he have stolen away From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon This whole earth may be bored and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him; So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

So should the murder’d look, and so should I, Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty: Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

What’s this to my Lysander? where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?